Don't Talk About Mickey

01 - No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service

Sitting in the dim, unfamiliar apartment, I waited for him to bring me a glass of water. Hopefully he wouldn't charge for that, but if that were the case, it would be the cheapest service I would get from him.

I didn't expect him to walk back into the living room without his shirt on. I thought the removal of the clothes happened in a bedroom, but modesty wasn't what I called him for anyway. His body was perfect—not too muscular and not too scrawny. He definitely had some definition underneath the tan skin of his.

After he handed me the glass of room temperature tap water, I drank it to the last drop and sat it on a coaster atop his coffee table.

"Thirsty?" he asked with a perfect grin.

"I'm good now. Thanks."

Without another word, he slid his hands around my wrists and helped me up from his semi-comfortable couch and led me through the pitch-black hallway into the back bedroom. Instead of flipping the switch to turn the light on, he clapped twice and a bedside lamp lit up.

His room was barren with no posters, no TV, and no computer. All he had was a dresser, a closet and a bed. Everything was black, except for the off white walls and carpet. A lone window sat just above his headboard with the half-moon shining in on the windowsill, black curtains draping over. The place wasn't too bad for a guy like him, but it definitely seemed too small.

He was still a little tipsy from the whiskey earlier, and I was still a little lightheaded from the motorcycle ride. We both sat on the edge of the bed; I was staring at my knees, and he was staring at me.

My nerves started to finally kick in after six months of planning this. Great. Right when I build up the courage to go through with it, I get cold feet. Maybe it was the water going straight through me making me a little hostile, but I knew if I moved a muscle, he would only pull me back onto the bed. Surely, he wanted to get this over with, as did I.

Unconsciously kicking my shoes from my feet, his gaze shot down to my legs in amusement.

"You look like you've got strong legs," he said, reaching out to touch the newly shaven skin. I tried not to shiver from the touch of his cold hands, but it gave me goose bumps all over. Still, I didn't pull back—I let his hand run up my shin, over my knee, and down the inside of my thighs. "Open them," he demanded.

My summer dress let me do just that, but he refrained from touching me further, which built up more anticipation. I'd been waiting to be touched like that.

His dark eyes trailed from my underwear to my breasts. He lifted the hand that had been on my thigh to the left strap of my dress, and pulled it off of my shoulder. I repeated the action with the right strap.

After a few quiet moments, he stood up from the bed, pulling me with him. His hands quickly slipped under my dress and pulled it off my body, leaving me in my strapless bra and panties.

"I didn't think you wore black," he chuckled, as he traced his fingers in between my breasts. "It looks beautiful against your porcelain skin."

My eyes rolled as I let out a sigh. "You're only saying that because I'm paying you."

He suddenly wrapped a strong arm around my bare waist and pulled me against his warm body. My lips parted at the gasp he forced out of me, no help from the stiffness below that rubbed against my thigh.

"I don't lie to my clients," he smirked, glancing from my eyes to my lips. "Now lie back."

I obeyed his orders, and lay over his covers against the feather pillows. Using his hands and knees, he crawled on top of me with a sly smile. He wrapped my legs around his waist and began kissing at my jaw line—a place that had only been kissed a few times before.